


A Touch of English

by Mireille



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-06-24
Updated: 2001-06-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 04:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13779702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: If Gunn wasted time wondering about things, he'd have a lot to wonder about.





	A Touch of English

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first AtS story. I wrote it back in 2001. There are SO MANY things I would have done differently if I were writing this story now. So. Very. Many.

* * *  
  
---  
  
"Hey, English."

He looks up from his book-- _Ten Thousand Slimy Demons and the Ways They Eat Your Liver_ , or something like that. If I use his name, sometimes he ignores me, but not when I call him "English." If I wasted time wondering about things, that would give me serious pause.

But me, I live for the moment. And in this particular moment, it's enough that he's listening.

"Is something the matter, Gunn?"

"Nah. I was going out to get lunch, and I figured you might want something."

"Isn't it a bit early for--" He glances at his watch. "I must have lost track of time."

"So, you hungry?"

He pauses to think about it. When he really gets into what he's reading, he wouldn't notice if California fell into the sea, let alone hunger pangs. Never could see how a bunch of moldy old books could be quite  _that_  interesting. I guess that's why I'm the man of action. "Where are you going?"

"Golden Arches. Cordelia wants one of those yogurt things."

He shakes his head. "If I want greasy cardboard, I'll check the alley."

"They have them in England, don't they?"

"They also have mad cow disease, and I'm not enthusiastic about that either."

"Okay, suit yourself, starve to death. Then we can finally name this place the Gunn Agency."

He doesn't even respond to that, just goes back to his book. I stand there for a minute, just in case he changes his mind.

Sometimes I could almost get behind the whole vampire thing. Like when I look at his neck, the pale skin just begging for bite marks....

If I wasted time wondering about things, I'd wonder about that, too. But I live in the moment, and this is the moment when I go buy quarter pounders and one of those stupid yogurt things for Cordelia.

So I go, and I don't look back to see if he knows I'm gone.

***

"Hey, English."

He's already put his books away; he's got a calculator and the agency checkbook out, and that tight look around his eyes that means the bank balance is something less than zero.

"Is something the matter, Gunn?"

I wave a paper bag in front of him. "Lunch."

"Thank you, but I really don't--"

"The Mickey D's is for me," I interrupt. " _This_  is for you." I pull out a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. "Boring, greaseless, turkey on whole wheat." I rummage in the bag again. "And an apple. That good enough for you, Mr. Nutrition?"

He's already taking a bite of the sandwich and contents himself with a nod. Not surprising; he's been in this office since seven, and it's after two. "Thanks," he says, swallowing hurriedly.

Cordelia is out front studying the script for some commercial, so I sit down and pull out my own lunch. While I squeeze ketchup on my fries, I ask, "So what's on tap for tonight?"

"Surprisingly, nothing," he says. "Angel's going to check out those rumors about a Yegra demon in the warehouse district, but as Yegras are essentially blind in the dark, he should be able to manage alone. And Cordelia has an audition. So if you want a night off--"

"How about you? You taking tonight off?" Of course he isn't, he's going to stay here and tie himself into knots about stuff he can't do a damned thing about, and probably kick himself around again because the inappropriately named Virginia dumped him. I don't even let him answer. "You need to go have some fun, English."

If I wasted time wondering, I'd wonder what he'd look like if he really cut loose. Cordelia says he dances like the whitest of white boys, and I believe it--he's not cut out for dancing. But if he let go of all that Masterpiece-Theatre-stuffy routine.... I've seen him angry, and his voice gets harsh, and his face loses that nervous-rabbit look.... My man English can be downright dangerous. The kind of dangerous that begs to be channeled in the right direction.

And it's dangerous for me to be thinking anything like what I'm thinking. Hell, I don't know what I'm thinking, really, and I think I like it that way.

It's quiet for a long, long time, and I'm beginning to think I seriously fucked up somehow. I'm starting to feel like Charles Gunn, who until just a couple months ago slept in abandoned buildings and stole food to stay alive. Which is stupid, I know, because that  _is_  who I am, or part of it, anyway, and it's no big deal. You do what you have to do. Only I don't usually care about that around him.

I'm just about to go out and bug Cordelia until she has to go to her audition when he finally says something. "What do you have in mind?"

Like he wants to know. Even I don't really want to know. "Meet me back here at seven and find out." Hoping that sounds cool, instead of as stupid as I feel right now.

He doesn't say anything, just goes back to his sandwich.

If I wasted time wondering, I'd wonder what the fuck I think I'm doing. But I live in the moment, and this is the moment when I try not to think at all.

I finish my lunch and walk out of the office, not looking at him, because if I did, I'd never be able to leave.

***

"Hey, English."

He shows up in faded jeans and a shirt that is open more at the throat than I'm used to seeing on him. If I wasted time wondering, I'd wonder whether he knew what I'd been thinking. But I live in the moment, and this was the moment for those hidden vamp urges to surface again.

I guess he notices me gawking at him, because he says, "Is something the matter, Gunn?"

I don't know what the hell I ought to say, so I just shrug. "Let's get going."

I opt for beer and pool in the tamest bar I know of. Well, "tame" in the sense that we're both likely to survive a visit, and there's a favorable human-to- demon ratio. There's still a huge potential for trouble, at least if he starts looking around.

I used to hang out in a pool hall when I was a kid; I could usually make a few bucks doing something or another for somebody. Mostly, though, I was there to watch Papa Joe play. I don't know whose papa he was--maybe nobody's. He was about seventy, always complaining about his arthritis--but give that man a pool cue and you forgot how old he was.

And sometimes, when he couldn't get a game going, he'd call me over and teach me how to play. I can remember watching him study the table for a minute, frowning to himself, and then announcing, "Charles, what this situation calls for is a touch of English." And then he'd send the cue ball spinning, and just when I'd think he'd blown it, there'd be the sound of a ball dropping neatly into the pocket.

So I play well enough that I don't make a fool of myself, and I figure I might even impress English a little.

And vice versa. I'd have bet money that he could only play weird British stuff like cricket and polo, but he's not bad.

Damn good, actually. Good enough to kick my ass seven ways to Sunday.

Of course, I'm not exactly giving the game my undivided attention. Not with English bent over like that, lining up his shot, and I am  _not_  checking out his ass, at least not if Cordelia ever asks, because if there's one place I'm not going, it's the place where Cordelia and I discuss English's ass. The only place worse would be the one where I discuss it with Angel. Who at least has an excuse for not doing anything but looking--a better one than being too chickenshit, which is mine.

It's his turn to buy the beer. Good. I can work on my breathing skills.

There's a weird look on his face when he comes back from the bar. "Gunn?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you noticed that there are no women in this bar?"

Busted. Well, if you can't be smart enough to avoid getting caught, at least be a smart-ass so he thinks you don't care. "Of course not. It's not Wednesday."

"So you  _were_  aware that this is a gay bar."

I shrug. "Beer's cheap, there are plenty of pool tables, and it's way out of vamp territory. This makes it a good bar." And far, far from my usual haunts. No one will care if I make a fool of myself over him. Except him, and I guess I can't help that.

"You might have mentioned it."

"I didn't figure you'd care."

Now that edge is coming into his voice. Like a tiger purring--not an immediate threat, but underneath the calm, you know it's a fucking serious one anyway. "What do you mean by that?"

"Angel." That's all I can get out, but it's enough. Enough to make him close down, but not before I see him flinch.

Did he think I was blind? Everybody knows he's at least halfway in love with Angel, except maybe Angel himself. I'd even bet that whatever reason she gave him, that's why Virginia left. She was a lot of things, and not all of them are things you'd want to say in front of your mother, but she wasn't stupid.

"You can't even begin to understand that," he says.

Fuck. I hate it when I lose control of a situation. What the hell do I do now?

_Charles--_

Wesley's not looking at me, and his spine has gone unnaturally stiff, like he's daring me to find out how far I can push him before he feeds me my spleen for dinner.

"You're right," I admit, and he actually looks surprised. Hell, he  _is_  right; I have no clue why he's got it so bad for Angel, when "unattainable" is the best he could hope for.

_\--what this situation calls for--_

"I can't understand why you're wasting your time on Angel--" I begin, because suddenly I can't stand it; I can't back off this time, no matter how much I want to.

He tenses up again, opening his mouth to argue, but I cut him off.

_\--is a touch--_

"--when you could have this."

_\--of English._

Then I'm kissing him, and he drops his beer in shock (and  _damn_ , my shoes are gonna stink like a wino's breath for weeks), and then his mouth is opening against mine, and he's leaning into me, his whole body pressed against mine, and if I ever  _do_  get trapped in that unhappy place where I have to talk to Cordelia about his ass, I can tell her that if you squeeze it just a little while you're kissing him, he moans into your mouth in a way that ought to be in the dictionary right next to the word "fuckable."

And then the kiss is over, and we're separating ourselves--and it's harder than I thought, like separating Siamese twins or something--and he's looking at me with this "what now?" expression.

If I wasted time wondering, I'd be thinking the same thing.

But me, I live in the moment. The one that just finished.

I turn and walk out of the bar, and I don't have to look over my shoulder to know he's following me.


End file.
